


she wore a star-shaped tambourine

by mansgotalimit



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M, Reunions, literally just me listening to lock all the doors for like the past 5 days on repeat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansgotalimit/pseuds/mansgotalimit
Summary: It’s a picture Noel sees, inadvertently, that starts it all off.His mam’s doing some big clearout, and he’s sifting through a bunch of photos of himself to see if he wants any, nodding idly as she chats away about what Paul’s been up to, throws in a sentence or two about Liam in her most disapproving tone, eyeing Noel to see how he reacts. He just carries on nodding, setting aside the picture of him in the red jumper at Knebworth, sweaty and concentrated, and picking up another random photo from the assortment on the table.It’s not him. It’s Liam, from their Glastonbury gig in ‘94, just as pretty as Noel remembers; full lips slightly parted, long lashes dark behind his sunglasses. He’s got one fist in the air, hidden by the long sleeves of his jumper, and in the other he’s holding a star-shaped tambourine.-reunion fic centred around lock all the doors
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	she wore a star-shaped tambourine

**Author's Note:**

> this is very self-indulgent, very liberal with canon, and given that i listened to lock all the doors about 3000 times while writing this it's probably paid noel's bills for a solid year 
> 
> [this](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C9sOgp1XgAA_bRK.jpg) is the picture of liam i'm on about (and [this](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/af/9e/96/af9e962fc534ee0fef5e3434df5d888e.jpg) is the picture of noel)

It’s a picture Noel sees, inadvertently, that starts it all off. 

His mam’s doing some big clearout, and he’s sifting through a bunch of photos of himself to see if he wants any, nodding idly as she chats away about what Paul’s been up to, throws in a sentence or two about Liam in her most disapproving tone, eyeing Noel to see how he reacts. He just carries on nodding, setting aside the picture of him in the red jumper at Knebworth, sweaty and concentrated, and picking up another random photo from the assortment on the table. 

It’s not him. It’s Liam, from their Glastonbury gig in ‘94, just as pretty as Noel remembers; full lips slightly parted, long lashes dark behind his sunglasses. He’s got one fist in the air, hidden by the long sleeves of his jumper, and in the other he’s holding a star-shaped tambourine. 

Noel remembers buying that tambourine. He’d not actually gone into town with any intention of buying Liam a birthday present, because he was fucking skint and Liam always got showered with gifts from family, anyway, being the youngest, widest-eyed of the Gallagher clan. Noel’d been looking for a record, he thinks, wandering into a shop to have a browse, when the tambourine had caught his eye. _Liam’d fucking love that,_ he’d thought. _And he might as well learn one fucking instrument._ So the tenner in his pocket had gone on that, instead of the album he’d been looking for. 

He’d had to hide the tambourine under his bed - the one place Liam let Noel have to himself, “because I’m too fucking tall to get down there,” although they both knew it was actually because of the one time he had looked and had received a black eye for his trouble. Liam had pestered him for days, asking what he’d bought him for his birthday, and Noel had snapped that he’d not got him anything, little twat, but he’ll give him a clip round the ear on his birthday to make up for it. 

On his birthday, Noel had woken up early. Liam was still asleep, looking the picture of sheer innocence, like they hadn’t been up smoking weed until fuck knows when in the morning. Noel had sat on the edge of his bed, just watching Liam sleep for a few moments, until he’d stirred, like he’d felt himself being watched, rolled on his side, and blinked blearily at Noel. 

“Happy birthday,” Noel had said, mostly to fill the silence, and Liam had grinned, big and broad and tinged with a slight edge of sleepiness. Noel had wanted nothing more than to kiss the grin away, but Liam’s morning breath had always been a force to be reckoned with, so he’d settled for reaching under his bed and pulling out the tambourine. 

It had felt stupid, sitting in his hands. A fucking tambourine. Plastic and metal, a tenner from some shitty shop in town. In the shape of a star, no less. He’d not even bothered to wrap it - didn’t even know where Mam kept the wrapping paper - but Liam’s eyes had lit up immediately. 

“Knew you’d got me something,” he’d said, sitting up in bed and holding his hand out. Noel had rolled his eyes and handed it over, and Liam had grabbed it greedily, turning it this way and that in his hands, making it jingle gently. 

“You’re fucking welcome,” Noel had said, and Liam had grinned at him. 

“Looks cheap as fuck,” he’d said, which was as close as Noel was going to get to a _thank you._

“Suits you, then,” Noel had retorted, and Liam had flipped him off, still grinning, and turned back to the tambourine, hitting it against the palm of his hand experimentally. He’d sung something under his breath - Whatever, Noel had recognised after a few notes - and Noel had been suddenly caught up in that trance that he’d found himself in far too often around Liam, that _shit, that’s my little brother, my little cunt of a brother, and he’s singing my fucking songs._ It made a warm, giddy feeling spread through his whole body every time, hearing his words spill from Liam’s lips. 

“Sounds like shit,” Noel had remarked, to hide the way he’d felt so vulnerable, so exposed, so fucking _nervous_ about that stupid fucking tambourine, and Liam had stopped and turned to him, eyes searching Noel’s own. 

“I love it,” he’d said after a moment, no trace of irony or mockery in his tone, and Noel knew he’d been caught. 

“Yeah?” he’d said, softer than he’d have liked. 

“‘Course,” Liam had said. “Would love it more if it hadn’t come from you, though.” And just like that, the moment was broken, and Noel had rolled his eyes, kicked at Liam’s shin, and Liam had stuck his tongue out at Noel and clambered out of bed, scratching his balls. 

“-come up to visit more often, you know, and- Noel, are you listening to me?” his mam is saying sternly, and Noel’s eyes snap from the photo up to her, and he can _feel_ the guilt written all over his face. His mam notices, too, leaning over to see what’s caught his attention, her mouth twisting in a frown when she sees the photo. 

“Oh,” she says, reaching for it, and on instinct, Noel tilts his hand, holding it out of the way. “That one wasn’t meant to be in there. Must’ve got mixed up when I was clearing out.” 

“‘S’alright,” Noel says, placing it on the top of the ‘don’t want’ pile, and picking up another photo - him in the ugliest striped shirt he’s ever seen, fucking hell, his fashion sense was the hardest-hit victim of his coke habit - just for something to do with his hands. His mam gives him a look, because he’s never fooled her, but starts talking about how Nora next door gave her that one, she’d got it off her daughter, and she wanted to know if he still had that guitar. 

(Well, Noel thinks, as he mumbles something vague about the guitar being in storage, which is probably a lie. He’s fooled her once. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t know about the fact Noel had been on-off shagging his little brother for about twenty years.) 

When his mam gets up to make him another cup of tea, he slips the picture of Liam into the middle of the ‘want’ pile, and tosses the rest of the photos he hasn’t looked at yet aside, because they don’t seem to matter anymore. 

\-------

The photo finds its way into the drawer in the desk in his office. He doesn’t know where else to put it that Sara wouldn’t find it, or one of the kids, because they seem to have a habit of looking in places they shouldn’t, but everybody knows his desk is off limits. It makes him feel a little dirty, somehow, like he’s got a bit on the side, or something. Although, he supposes, that’s exactly what it is. 

(He’s never been quite sure who was the bit on the side, though.) 

He takes it out, intending to throw it in the bin, and then puts it back, at least ten times. Eventually, he just covers it with a bunch of legal documents that he’s supposed to look through and sign but can’t be arsed to deal with, and hopes that out of sight will mean out of mind. When he pulls the picture out again, two days later, he realises that had been a fairly big ask for the man who’s not gone a day without thinking about the brother he’s not spoken to in half a decade. 

His mam calls again, saying she’s found a bunch of lyrics he wrote back in the nineties and she’s sent them down. He tells her thanks, but he’ll probably toss them, and she tells him that’s fine, she’s just got enough of their shite in her recycling bin at the moment, and the bin men keep nicking it. The lyrics arrive two days later in a thick brown envelope, and Noel throws it on his desk to go through later, thinking he might as well see what’s in there before tossing it. He still has no fucking idea where the lyrics to Roll With It ended up, and it’s Anais’s favourite Oasis song, so that might be a nice birthday present. 

When he goes through them that night, clock ticking towards midnight, he realises they’re mostly shit - coked-up, drunken ramblings that slip from _she_ to _he_ pronouns as they go on, flipping from angry to guilty to miserable. He can still hear the melodies to most of them in his head, and some of them are half-decent, so he puts them aside, thinking he’ll just come up with some other words that aren’t the lovesick nonsense of a drug-addled twenty-something. 

About thirty pages of yellowing paper deep, Noel finds a small scrap of paper that he’d hastily scribbled on, and his stomach drops. 

_Lock all the doors_ _  
_ _Maybe they’ll never find us_ _  
_ _I can be sure, like never before this time_ _  
_ _Get down on the floor_ _  
_ _Turn all the lights off inside_ _  
_ _I can be sure, like never before this time_ _  
_ _You know it’s mine_ _  
_ _You know it’s mine_

He remembers writing that, can hear the tune vividly in his mind. It had been after a particularly vicious fight with Liam, one that had loosened a tooth and probably given him a concussion. 

(“You never have any fucking regard for anything that isn’t fucking yours!” Liam had shouted, fury etched on his features. _You don’t fucking care about me._

“Why the fuck should I care about your fucking shoes?” Noel had spat back. _You don’t make it particularly fucking easy to care._

“Would it fucking kill you to care about something that isn’t yourself, you fucking cunt?” Liam had yelled. _Why won’t you ever choose me?_

“It’s fucking shoes, Liam, not your fucking firstborn.” _It’s not that fucking simple._ ) 

It had ended in the usual manner, Noel nursing a black eye and Liam stomping off to the nearest pub to get into another fight. Noel had gone straight for the hotel room, knocking back all the booze he could find in the mini fridge and dumping the empty bottles on Liam’s bed, until his vision was blurry around the edges and he wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or anger at Liam or the frustration at himself. 

He’d ripped a page out of the pad on the desk and scribbled down the first words that had come to mind. _I can be sure about you. I can be sure this time. Just lock all the doors, turn all the lights off, get down on the floor, and maybe we’ll never be found. You’re mine._ He’d stumbled over to Liam’s bed, placed the scrap of paper on his pillow, and flopped down on his own bed, staring up at the ceiling and willing himself to fall asleep before Liam came back or before he changed his mind. 

It had only taken him twenty minutes to change his mind, to pick the piece of paper back off the pillow and shove it in his pocket, and then, stomach lurching, crash into the bathroom and throw up everything he’d ingested in the past twenty-four hours, trying not to think about how telling his brother how he feels made him feel sicker than fucking him ever did. 

He’d never finished it. He’d found it in his pocket a few days later, and shoved it in his notebook, too sober to deal with it at that moment in time. That notebook had been tossed somewhere on a trip back home, and he’d not spent a lot of time searching for it, writing it off as a lost cause and moving on to the next one, the scrap of paper completely forgotten. 

Noel wonders how he ever managed to forget it, now. He’d written a verse that went with it, in a vain attempt to finish it so Liam could see, but it had been when he was sober and hadn’t felt right, had felt like a lie next to the brutally honest chorus, so he’d given it away. Even now, twenty years later, the honesty in the words that he’d never ended up saying to Liam makes him wince, makes him want to shy away, rip it up, throw it away. 

But he can’t. 

That’s the thing, with Noel and Liam. Push and pull, Noel would say, when interviewers asked about their dynamic. Give and take, Liam would say, and Noel would scoff, and say you, give? Fuck off. Liam would grin, and say I give plenty, eyes glinting, and Noel would throw him a look, a _we’re going to talk about this after the interview_ look, and Liam would grin innocently at him, a _we’ll talk after you’ve fucked me_ look. But whether they called it push and pull, or give and take, or yin and yang, or Cain and Abel, at its core was dependence. 

Liam’s always needed Noel. That’s been clear since the minute he was fucking born. The first person he’d seen when he’d opened his eyes had been Noel, and he’d been the only person Liam had ever truly seen ever since. He’d get into fights, come home proudly displaying his latest injuries because he loved the way Noel would scrunch his nose up, the way he’d call him a fucking idiot, the way he’d toss the frozen peas at him with a glare. He’d goad Noel into arguments, pester him every second of the day that he wasn’t paying attention to Liam, rile him up until he was shouting and red in the face - anything, as long as his mind was on Liam. He’d eye him from across the stage, making sure that Noel was looking, because it didn’t fucking matter to Liam how many people were there - two, two hundred, two hundred thousand. All that mattered was Noel. 

But, what Liam and Noel knew, and nobody else, was that Noel needed Liam too. He needed the boy like he needed fucking air in his lungs, needed to know he could bite and scratch and kick and run away and Liam would always come running after him. He needed that kind of unconditional love, needed someone to protect him, needed someone to protect. He needed the way Liam set his veins on fire, the way Liam knocked the air out of his lungs and then breathed it right back in, the way Liam made his heart swell and overflow until it was dripping with the kind of pure love that was so, _so_ fucking impure for brothers. Liam always knew that whenever Noel would cut himself off and run away, he’d run somewhere Liam could find him. He always wanted to be found, but only ever by Liam. There was a reason Liam was the only one that Noel could ever write about, the only reason he ever fucking wrote in the first place, the only reason the words kept flowing. 

Before he can even process what he’s doing, he pulls the drawer to his left open, shuffles the legal documents to one side and pulls out the picture of Liam that’s already starting to get a little worn around the edge that Noel always tugs at. He puts it on the desk next to the scrap of paper, downs his glass of whiskey while his eyes trace the shape of Liam’s lips, and pulls a new sheet of paper towards him. 

_She wore a star-shaped tambourine,_ he writes. _Prettiest girl I’d ever seen._

It’s true. Nobody’s ever got Noel’s heart racing like Liam, ever made his skin burn and tingle like Liam, ever managed to lace their way into every single fucking one of Noel’s thoughts like Liam. Noel used to spend hours mapping every inch of Liam’s skin, memorising every curve, every freckle, the spots that would make him squeal, the spots that would make him gasp. He was the only thing Noel could ever see on stage, glowing in the bright lights, burned into Noel’s retinas night after night after night. Sometimes he’d look over, knowing Noel was watching out of the corner of his eye, and there’d be something dark in his blue eyes - the same fucking blue eyes as Noel’s own, which always made him feel a little sick - something electric, something that screamed _love_ and _need_ and _want_ in a way that Liam could never otherwise express without being on his knees. 

Towards the end, though, when Noel was wrestling with himself, knowing him and Liam were completely unsustainable on the trajectory they were travelling, he’d go weeks without looking at Liam on stage. Liam would try his best - waltz over to Noel, dedicate songs to him, sing a little too fast so the rest of them would have to catch up to him - but Noel never gave. Give and take, Liam used to say, but Noel never gave, and Liam didn’t know how to do anything but take, and when there was nothing to take he was lost. 

_Standing lost and lonely on the shore,_ Noel adds, thinking about the figure he’d see at the front of the stage, as solitary as he’d ever looked to the crowd but more alone than Noel had ever seen him in his life. 

It’d made Noel almost spitefully happy, at the time, to see Liam in front of thousands of people chanting his name and still incomplete, still lost and floundering, because he didn’t have Noel. They’d both tried, in their own ways - Liam by acting out even more, being louder and brasher and somehow even more of a cunt than he’d ever been, and Noel by writing, twisting words into metaphors to try and tell Liam _stop it, I love you, but I can’t fucking stand you._ Liam would pretend not to understand the metaphors, because he always needed more, needed Noel to tell him what he felt, and Noel would ignore Liam’s loud outbursts, slipping on a pair of headphones and heading to his own bus.

(“Parallel lines,” Liam had once said, his head on Noel’s chest, tracing two lines on Noel’s stomach. 

“Hm?” 

“Me and you. Parallel lines.” Liam hadn’t said any more, but he hadn’t had to. Noel had felt his heart sink, and he’d pulled Liam closer, pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head, wondering, as he did every time towards the end, whether this would be the last time.) 

It had taken a few years after the last time for Noel to cool down, for the anger to ebb and give way to the feeling he’d loved having disguised - the pure, unadulterated _need._ At first, he’d watched Liam flounder, watched the band fail, watched his personal life fall apart, and he’d felt good. He’d feel a spiteful stab of glee whenever Liam’s name appeared in the papers again, reading and re-reading the articles and scanning the pictures that accompanied them, watching Liam age on paper. 

(“He’s at it again,” he’d once said to Sara in the morning, jabbing a finger at the picture of Liam on the front of the Sun. She’d thrown him a strange look, calculating and sad, and said: “Why do you still care so much?”

Noel had drunk an entire bottle of wine that night to try and forget what she’d said.) 

After a while had passed, though, and the fury had faded and the bottomless need was growing more and more desperate every day, Noel tried. 

He wrote song after song, echoing chord sequences from songs he’d written about Liam in the ‘90s, writing long and winding extended metaphors that barely even made sense to him by the end. He talked about Liam in every interview, knowing Liam would be watching, speaking in riddles that only Liam would understand. He started playing Oasis songs at his shows every night, the ones that might as well just be called _I love Liam Gallagher_ , even went so far as to start playing _All You Need Is Love_ , but Liam never bit. 

And yeah, he’d still get the odd text from Liam. _Whens your duet with robbie comin out then eh?_ , he’d say, or _In manny, mam says she’s glad your not playing shite music upstairs anymore_ , or sometimes, at three in the morning, just _X._

(Noel was never quite sure whether Liam meant that as a kiss or a threat, but then again, it was probably both.)

But Liam never responded to anything Noel said, not after the first few years. He removed himself from the public eye, settled down somewhere, took time off. He didn’t say anything about any song Noel wrote that had vague references to him, or to a night in the nineties, or a fight in the noughties. He didn’t even kick up a fuss at Noel playing _All You Need Is Love._ It was as though he’d finally hoisted himself up, dusted himself off and decided he didn’t need Noel anymore. 

And Noel didn’t know - still doesn’t - how to live a life in which Liam doesn’t need him. 

_I try to catch her every night,_ he writes, thinking of the songs he sings at every show, Oasis and his own, singing his fucking heart out for Liam to absolutely no avail. _Dancing on the road in the candlelight. But I can’t seem to reach her anymore._

He sits back after that, dotting the full stop with a little more force than strictly necessary, and stares down at the words, scanning over them but not taking them in. The melody’s clear in his mind - maybe a B minor, instead of a D - and on automatic pilot he reaches for the guitar resting against the side of his desk, pulling it into his lap and strumming experimentally. He hums along quietly, not wanting to face the words until he’s knocked back at least two more glasses of whiskey. It sounds good, though, he thinks - much more Oasis than High Flying Birds, but he doesn’t think it would feel right if it didn’t. Maybe Liam’ll listen this time. 

He leans back over his guitar, picks up the pen again, and starts a new verse: _She never hears me when I speak. I’ve gotta find out where that magic sleeps._ He has to put his pen down after that, has to reach for the whiskey bottle on his desk and pour himself another glass. The alcohol burns his throat as it slides down, but it’s a welcome change from the uncomfortable prickling sensation under his skin. 

See, he’s always known where the magic sleeps. He’s always known how to reach Liam. In the seventies, it was through patience, through walking to school with Liam, through listening to his insane seven-year-old mind making up stories, chattering happily along the way. 

(“You know,” Liam would say, all conversationally, “I’m running away tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Noel would say, amused. “And where d’you think you’re going?” Liam would shrug, and run the stick he was holding through the hedge to his left as he walked. 

“Dunno yet,” he’d say cheerfully. “I’ll let you come with me, though.” 

“Ta very much,” Noel would say, biting back a snort, and Liam would grin serenely and nod curtly, like it was decided.) 

In the eighties, it was through compromises, through letting Liam tag along when Noel went out to play football with his mates, through playing him the new records Noel had bought at the shop. 

(“I don’t get it,” Liam would say, straight-faced. “Sounds shit. What the fuck’s the point in this?” Noel would sigh, and roll his eyes. 

“Don’t have to listen to it, you dick,” he’d say, stretched out on his bed. “Fuck off outside, for all I care.” Liam would say nothing, but he’d never leave.) 

In the nineties, it was through lyrics, through mostly-empty promises, through pretty words that were for Liam but could have been for anyone. 

(“Is this about me?” Liam would say, every single time Noel finished a song. 

“No,” Noel would say, rolling his eyes, “but I’ve written one called ‘Fucking Self-Obsessed Cunt’ that is.” Liam would roll his eyes right back, flip Noel off, and scan the words again. 

“Here,” he’d say triumphantly, tapping the paper so hard it’d crinkle. “That’s about me, that is.” Noel would arch an eyebrow. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he’d say, stomach churning, because of course the line was about Liam. The whole fucking song was always about Liam.) 

In the noughties, it was through arguments, through pulling away so Liam would come running after him, through vicious words and physical altercations that would end in so many bruises, some from fists, some from lips. 

(“God, you’re a cunt,” Noel would grunt, thrusting into Liam as hard as he could, making him fucking mewl. “Fucking- piece of shit-” 

“Yeah,” Liam would gasp, fingernails raking down Noel’s back, hard enough to draw blood. “Only for you.” Noel would growl, fuck into him harder, deeper, but no matter how deep he got, it was never enough.) 

Even now, in this new decade, with new family and new friends in a whole new fucking world, Noel knows how to reach Liam. All Liam wants - all Liam’s ever wanted - was what Noel could never offer him. Honesty. 

Noel inhales deeply, and then jots down another line. _And I can feel you underneath my skin._

It immediately feels too much, too honest, too raw, so he writes another line, vaguer and more bullshit, but he knows Liam will still understand his meaning. _Ready for take-off, warm inside._ He _is_ ready, this time. At least, he thinks, pouring himself another glass of whiskey, he’s ready when he’s on his own at half-midnight, three whiskeys deep, staring at a picture of his little brother commanding the stage at Glastonbury. He’s ready for anything, then. 

But he wonders if he’ll still be ready in the morning. In the bright light of day, when Sara starts telling him about the obligations they have this week, when Anais stomps and screams and tells him he’s the worst dad on the planet, when he’s scratching his head trying to remember how to do short division to help Donovan with his homework, will he still be ready? Will he still want Liam to know, to hear, how he feels? How he’s always felt, how he’ll always feel? 

He doesn’t know. He’s a coward at heart, when it comes to Liam. Liam’s always been ready, since day fucking one - ready to say fuck the world, fuck my career, fuck everything and everyone else, I just want you. And Noel could never take that step, could never do anything more than peer over the cliff edge, while Liam was lighting up a cigarette, bored, ready to jump. This, though, might be Noel’s last chance. He’s tried everything that had been enough to placate Liam before - the metaphors, the old songs, the barbed comments in interviews - and it’s not worked this time. This, putting it down into words, telling Liam in front of the entire fucking world that he misses him, that he loves him, might be the last shot Noel’s got. 

_‘Cause I don’t wanna sail on the ocean wide,_ he writes. _‘Cause we might never live to meet again._

That’s it. He knows it, leaning back from the desk, suppressing the itch to scribble out all of the lyrics so hard that the pen tears through the paper. That’s his last attempt to get through to Liam. 

He tucks the photo back in the desk drawer, places the lyrics carefully on top of it, and goes to bed, kisses his sleeping wife on the forehead and tries to hold back the bile that rises in his throat, because the only image flashing in his mind is a pretty twenty-one-year-old, tambourine in hand. 

\-------

His mam calls two weeks later, and inadvertently seals the deal. 

“You haven’t said a word to me for weeks,” is how she starts the conversation, admonishing, and Noel sighs. 

“I know, mam, I’ve been busy,” he says. 

“Too busy for your own mother?” she tuts. “You know, Liam calls every week. _Liam._ ” 

“I’ve had shit to do,” is all Noel can say lamely. “Album’s got to get finished, you know.” 

“You never took this long with Oasis,” she says. 

“Never had to do it on my own, then,” Noel says, before he can think about it. His mam’s silent for a moment, and then she sighs. 

“He misses you too,” she says. Noel snorts, a little derisively.

“Does he fuck.” 

“He took home that photo of you in the striped shirt,” she says. “You know the one?” Noel swallows. 

“I know the one,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound as weak to her as it does to him. Fuck. 

“I know you took the one of him at Glastonbury,” she says sternly, and Noel inhales deeply, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“What’s your point, mam?” he says, a little annoyed. 

“You apologise to your brother now,” she says, like they’re ten and five again, like there hasn’t been half a decade of hurt and silence. 

“I’ll apologise when he does,” Noel says stubbornly, like he’s said for the past five years. His mam sighs again, deep and long-suffering, but knows she’s not going to get anywhere with him, so changes the subject. 

“How’s little Donovan getting on at school, then?” she asks, and Noel starts reeling off a list of Donovan’s achievements on autopilot, letting her hum and ah in the right places while his mind races, trying to make sense of the fact that Liam, who won’t rise to any of Noel’s goading or lyrical pleading, took a photo of Noel home with him. 

When he finally hangs up, he goes straight to his office and pulls the drawer in his desk open, yanking the picture of Liam out. The corner he always pulls on is starting to disintegrate, now, and Noel tries not to think about how often that means he’s pulled it out in the last few weeks. Instead, he picks off the lyrics that come out with it, tucks them in his pocket, turns on his heel, and heads for the studio. 

\-------

The song comes out with the rest of the album, in March. Noel’s not even fucking bothered about how the album, which has been two years in the making, is going to do. He jumps every time his phone rings, and Sara gives him sympathetic looks, thinking he’s nervous about how it’s going to chart, but she doesn’t catch the fleeting disappointment that crosses his face when he sees it’s his management calling, not Liam. 

His mam likes the album, which is good. The kids aren’t bothered, because they never are, and Sara’s always got some kind and some critical words for him. Noel gets caught up in press, who all seem to like the songs, answers mundane question after mundane question about the writing and recording process, praying someone will ask him about _Lock All The Doors_. For the first round of interviews, nobody does, all too focused on _Ballad of the Mighty I_ , until one radio show at six in the morning. BBC, he thinks, or maybe Capital. 

“Tell us about the most interesting song on the record,” the host (Richard? Ritchie? No, Robert) says, steepling his fingers against his chin. 

“Well,” Noel says. “Actually, _Lock All The Doors_ is about twenty-two, twenty-three years old, give or take.” Robert raises an eyebrow, and Noel continues. “Yeah, I wrote the chorus in the nineties. Couldn’t get the verse right, though, so I left it. My mam found it when she was clearing out some things from the attic, sent it down, and, well.” He shrugs to disguise the fact that his heart’s beating wildly, because he just fucking _knows_ Liam is going to listen to this. “It felt like the right moment to finish it.” 

“I thought it sounded a bit more Oasis,” Robert says, and Noel nods, and then they’re moving on to what the most challenging part of the recording process was, and Noel loses interest again. 

He gets three calls that day, and jumps at every one of them. His manager wants to let him know the schedule for tomorrow has changed, and Noel snaps that he didn’t know what the schedule was in the first place so he doesn’t fucking care; Sara wants to know whether he can buy milk on his way home, and Noel grits his teeth and bites back the _you fucking buy it_ that’s on the tip of his tongue; and his mate rings to tell him the album’s great, and Noel has to swallow back the _can you fucking tell our kid to listen to it, then,_ and settle for a _thanks mate._

As the day wears into night and his phone doesn’t ring again, Noel starts to wonder whether Liam actually cares at all, whether he’s misread the situation, whether he really has fucked it up for good and no words can fix it. He locks himself in his office at nine, mumbling that he’s got a bunch of album-related shit to sort out, and he knocks back two glasses of whiskey and a shot of vodka as he listens to his family, his wife and his fucking kids, heading up to bed, one by one. When Sara knocks lightly on the door and calls that she’s going to turn in for the night, he mumbles a goodnight, and waits for her footsteps to fade before doing what he’s been itching to do all evening - pull out the picture of Liam. 

It feels fucking dirty, waiting for his wife to go to sleep before getting out the picture of Liam, but the whiskey and vodka stop him from caring all too much. He pours himself another shot and knocks it back without taking his eyes off the picture, relishing the way it burns as it goes down. Fucking good, he thinks darkly, as his vision blurs a little and then sharpens again. Good to feel fucking _something._

It only takes one more shot before he’s getting up and slotting a CD into his stereo, skipping straight to track five and letting the music fill the room, swell and grow like his fucking heart. Liam, singing to Noel, singing that he belongs in his heart, wondering if Noel will relish it if Liam fails. Noel had never said anything about it, even when Liam had pestered him for nights, dedicated it to him onstage. He didn’t know if he’d mean the words he said either way, but Liam had taken his silence as rejection, and lashed out at it. At the time, Noel had been furious, had thought _right, that’s fucking it, I’ve had enough of the cunt,_ but now he thinks he’d take Liam lashing out at him over the pure fucking radio silence he’s had for years. 

But, he thinks, as the song fades out and the next one begins, Liam had taken that photo of Noel home. That ridiculous photo, Noel’s face scrunched up in concentration, wearing that hideous shirt. Maybe that meant something. Maybe that was a sign. 

Nah, he thinks bitterly, flinging himself back down in his chair. Liam’d probably taken it home to play darts with, or something. 

He lets the album play out, losing track of how many more shots he downs, enjoying the warm buzz in his veins and the way it dulls the edge of the Liam-shaped hole in his soul. He barely even realises it’s finished, running his finger along the rim of his whiskey glass and debating if he can be bothered to get up and fetch more alcohol, until his phone rings, piercing the silence of the room. 

He starts, fingers slipping on the glass, and fumbles for his phone, holding it up to his face. 

_LG._

Fuck. 

_Shit._

His fingers slip as he tries to swipe and answer the call, and it takes him three tries, wiping his hand on his shirt to get the sweat and whiskey off, before he manages to pick up, and hold the phone to his ear. 

“Hi,” Noel says, mouth dry, and his voice echoes in the silence of his office. Liam doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Noel briefly wonders whether he’s maybe fallen asleep, or it was an accidental call, when-

“Heard your new song,” he hears, low and gravelly. The years - or, more accurately, the fags and booze - have been kind to Liam’s voice, he thinks. Noel’s always wanted that cool, low voice, always hated how squeaky he sounded next to Liam. 

“Oh yeah?” Noel says, pleased with how cool and collected he sounds, even though he feels like he’s about to throw up, or faint, or maybe both. “Which one?” 

“You know which one.” Noel swallows. 

“Took your fucking time,” he says, because he doesn’t want to ask Liam what he thought of it. 

“Got better things to do than listen to your shite,” Liam shoots back. 

“Like what, fucking wank over pictures of me from the nineties?” Noel retorts, feeling like he’s walking on some kind of tightrope. One wrong move, he thinks, and he’ll fall, and that’ll be it. He’ll never get up again. 

“You’re fucking one to talk,” Liam counters. “Mam told me about the Glastonbury photo.” Fucking mam, honestly. 

“You look a right fucking girl in it,” Noel remarks. 

“Pretty, though, aren’t I?” Liam says, and Noel can hear the smirk in his voice, and realises there’s no bite behind the words. 

“Let yourself go, you have,” he says, and he can almost see the indignant look on Liam’s face. 

“You still fucking would,” Liam says, and Noel swallows again, the alcohol in his blood fighting against the instinct to snap out a biting response. God, he’s fucking drunk. 

“Yeah,” he says honestly, when the alcohol seizes control, and then has to quash a wave of panic that swells in his chest. Liam just hums in response, like he’s weighing it up, turning the word this way and that in his mind. 

“I did wank over that picture,” he says suddenly after a moment, apropos of nothing, and Noel can’t hold back the huff of laughter that escapes him. 

“Fucking pervert,” he says, but the idea of Liam, forty-two, cock in hand and eyes on a picture of _Noel_ , makes something electric course through his veins. 

“Maybe,” Liam says. “But I’m not the one writing songs about how fucking pretty you are, am I?” 

“Just needed something to rhyme with tambourine,” Noel says. “Don’t flatter yourself.” They both know he’s lying. 

“Heard you on the radio this morning,” Liam says, after a moment of silence. 

“Knew you’d listen.” 

“Did you fuck.” 

“Fucking did. Fucking obsessed with me, you are.” Liam scoffs. 

“Cunt,” he says, but there’s a tinge of fondness to the word. “When’d you write it, then?” Noel inhales deeply, and exhales heavily.

“That fight we had,” he says. “Atlanta, I think. I spilled beer on your shoes.” 

“Had to fucking throw them out,” Liam remarks. 

“Good,” Noel says. “They were fucking ugly.” 

“Weren’t before you chucked beer all over them.” Noel rolls his eyes, rubbing his free hand on his jeans. God, he feels like a fucking teenager all over again, getting sweaty palms on the phone to his latest crush. 

“Did you a favour,” he tells Liam. 

“Wasn’t about the shoes, anyway,” Liam says. “They were just- what’s it? Collateral damage?” 

“Everything’s collateral damage with us,” Noel points out. “Even me and you.” Liam huffs out a laugh. 

“Yeah,” he says, and Noel hears the sadness laced into the word. Or maybe he thinks he hears it, because he’s feeling it himself. 

They lapse into silence for a moment, and Noel listens to every quiet inhale, every even exhale, like it’s the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He wonders whether Liam’s doing the same, listening to Noel’s ragged, drunken breathing, whether he even cares. 

“Why now?” Liam asks eventually. Fucking hell. Noel’s not nearly drunk enough for this conversation. 

He doesn’t even know where to begin. _You don’t fucking listen to me,_ maybe. _I miss you,_ probably. _Let’s try this again,_ possibly. But underlying all of those things is one thing: _I love you._

“Needed it,” he settles on, knowing Liam will understand what he means. _I needed you to hear me. Needed you to call. Needed you back in my life, and that meant a compromise and a leap of faith._

“Why’d you change your mind on it in the nineties?” Liam asks, and it’s a little bitter. 

“‘Cause you’re a cunt,” Noel says. 

“Fuck off.” They fall back into silence, and Noel tips the whiskey glass against his lips, trying to swallow the dregs, give him the liquid confidence to say what he knows he fucking needs to say. 

“I was scared,” he admits, after a moment, and the words hang between them for a split second, and Noel wants to reach out and pull them back, cram them back down his throat. 

“Of what? I was already sucking your fucking dick, weren’t I?” Noel inhales sharply at the words, at the memories, at the fact that he still, all these years later, hasn’t had anything come _close_ to how it had felt to be enveloped in Liam’s hot mouth, have Liam blinking up at him, blue eyes dark, lashes casting shadows on his creamy skin. Jesus. 

“Of all of it,” Noel says. “‘S too much, Liam. Fucking-” he breaks off, because he doesn’t know where that sentence was going to go. _Fucking my brother is the best I’ve ever felt in my life? Fucking cunt that you are, making me love you more than I’ve loved anyone or anything else? Fucking would have chosen you, if I’d been drunk enough to fall asleep that night. Would’ve chosen you, every single time, if I had the fucking balls._

“Fucking coward,” Liam says, an edge of anger in his tone. “All of this, for what? For fucking what, Noel?” The name sounds so familiar on Liam’s tongue but the voice is so foreign, years older than Noel remembers.

“For a normal fucking life,” Noel says. 

“Fuck that,” Liam says immediately. “Fuck that, you never wanted that. Fucking what, wife and two-point-five kids? My arse. You’re a fucking coward.” 

“Fuck off,” Noel snaps.

“Did you even fucking mean it?” Liam demands. “Back then. Did you mean it? Or did you just write it because it sounded pretty?” 

“‘Course I fucking meant it,” Noel says hotly. “Never fucking meant anything more, you cunt. That’s why I couldn’t fucking tell you.” 

“D’you mean it now?” Noel opens his mouth to respond, and then shuts it again. 

“It’s different now,” he says, a little wearily. They’ve both got kids, both got partners, both got established lives. They’re not young and free, not tied to anyone or anything, able to up and leave and spend two weeks shagging in a hotel in Ibiza anymore. 

“Answer me,” Liam says harshly. “Do you fucking mean it?” Noel hesitates. 

“What happens if I say yeah?” he says. “What fucking happens, Liam? I’m not leaving Sara, or the kids. So what’s the fucking point?” 

“What’d you fucking write it for, then?” 

“For you.” Noel hears Liam breathe for a moment, in and out, in and out. 

“You don’t have to leave them,” he says eventually. 

“As if you’d ever be content without all of me,” Noel says. 

“I’m not leaving my kids either,” Liam says. Noel snorts. 

“Can’t leave if you were never there in the first place,” he says, biting and cruel. 

“Fuck you,” Liam spits. “You’re a right fucking cunt you are, y’know that?” 

“Yeah, you’ve fucking said,” Noel says derisively. Liam doesn’t say anything to that, just breathes heavily down the phone line, and Noel half-wishes he would hang up, give Noel a few more years of anger to gloss over the pure fucking _want_. He doesn’t, though, because both of them know that this is fragile, that the first one to hang up is the one declaring the two of them a lost cause. 

“It’s a good song,” Liam says after a few minutes of silence, careful and quiet, and Noel sags. It’s an olive branch, and although Noel’s rational side is screaming at him not to take it, the alcohol is making his heart speak louder than his mind. 

“I’d choose you,” he says. “If I could.” 

“You could’ve,” Liam says. 

“I know.” Liam pauses, like he’s weighing up his next words. 

“So you mean it?” he says after a beat, and Noel sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says tiredly. “I fucking mean it.” 

“Okay.” Noel waits for the rest of the sentence, but it never comes. 

“Okay?” he echoes. “Fucking hell, Liam. I just poured my fucking heart out to you, and all you can say is ‘okay’?” 

“Poured your fucking heart out?” Liam quips. “You said ten fucking words.” 

“What the fuck d’you want, flowers and chocolates?” 

“Wouldn’t say no to a nice bottle of wine and a fancy meal,” Liam says, and Noel can’t help snorting. 

“Last time I took you out for a fancy meal you did coke in the toilets,” he reminds Liam. 

“Yeah, didn’t fucking realise how fucking boring fancy restaurants are, did I?” Liam says. “Had to liven it up somehow.” 

“Fucking idiot,” Noel says, but he can’t help the fondness that leaks into his tone. “And you wonder why I stopped taking you out on dates.” 

“Nah, I don’t wonder,” Liam says breezily. “Couldn’t fucking handle the rock-and-roll lifestyle, could you?” Noel rolls his eyes. 

“Rock-and-roll isn’t trying to beat up the fucking waiter ‘cause you think he’s making eyes at your brother,” he tells Liam. 

“I’ll fucking beat up anyone who makes eyes at my brother,” Liam mutters, and Noel feels that electric thrill shooting through his veins again, making his fucking toes tingle. Jesus, he’s got soft in his old age. Or maybe he’s just forgotten what Liam feels like. 

“Fucking twat,” Noel says fondly. 

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Your twat.” Noel grins, and knows Liam’ll be smiling too, maybe playing with the rim of a beer bottle. 

“Can I see you?” Liam asks, after a moment. 

“When?” 

“Whenever.” 

“What for?” 

“What d’you mean, what fucking for?” Liam says, sounding a little incensed. “We’ve just made up, we have.” 

“Have we?” Noel says, mostly just to prod at some of Liam’s many buttons. 

“Fucking dick,” Liam tells him, and Noel laughs, _laughs,_ and it makes him feel fucking delirious that he’s laughing, joking, teasing Liam. 

“Yeah,” Noel says, and then a wave of guilt surges up in him, and he starts: “But-” 

“I know,” Liam cuts in, before Noel has to say something like _I’m not going to tell my wife, so don’t tell your missus either,_ and Noel breathes a slightly uneven sigh of relief. Liam won’t want anyone to know, either. Noel hates it, hates the idea of sneaking behind Sara’s back, but hates the idea of having to tell her he’s going to see Liam even more, and loves the thrill of the secrecy. 

“Friday,” Liam says. “I’ll get us a hotel.” 

“A hotel?” Noel says, arching an eyebrow. “Bit presumptuous.” 

“Fuck off. Never said I was bringing fucking rose petals and condoms, did I?” 

“Maybe you should.” 

“What fucking happened to presumptuous?” 

“Dick,” Noel says, the best response his alcohol-and-Liam-addled mind can muster. 

“I’ll bring a stereo,” Liam says, and Noel can hear the smirk in his voice. “Blast that fucking song while we make sweet love.” 

“We’ve never fucking made love,” Noel tells him. 

“Maybe you haven’t,” Liam says, and Noel sucks in a breath, exhales heavily. 

“Remember that time in Paris?” he says. 

“What, where you threw me against the fucking wall and almost bit me fucking neck off?” Liam says dubiously. 

“Fuck off,” Noel says. “Threw you against the fucking wall, my arse.” 

“You did!” Liam protests. “Thought I’d fucking shattered my elbow.” 

“You’d have been such a fucking cunt if you had,” Noel says. “Fucking, ‘Noel, can you cut my food up for me?’ ‘Noel, can you wipe my arse for me?’” 

“Fuck off,” Liam says, but Noel can hear him smiling. 

“You were a fucking nightmare on that tour already,” Noel remarks. “Acting like a fucking twat every day.” 

“That was the coke.” 

“Why’d you keep doing it, then?” 

“‘Cause it’s fucking fun, innit?” Noel rolls his eyes. 

“You tried to fucking deck that journalist I was talking to,” he says. “Thought he was trying to feel me up.” 

“He was!” Liam protests. “I saw his fucking hands wandering.” 

“And I can’t look after myself?” 

“What, all five-two of you?” Liam says. 

“Fuck you,” Noel says, but he’s grinning. 

“You loved it,” Liam says shrewdly. “Any time I stood up for you, you fucking loved it. Used to kiss my bruised knuckles when you thought I was sleeping.” 

“Fuck off,” Noel says, because he did. 

“That’s why you fucked me like that that night,” Liam says, like the realisation has just dawned on him. “‘Cause I punched that journalist. Jesus, that was you making love? What the fuck are you like when you hate someone?” 

“You’re the only one who’d know,” Noel says. 

“Can’t fucking tell the difference.” 

“Cain and fucking Abel, eh?” Noel says sardonically, and Liam huffs out a laugh.

“Missed you,” he says, and it comes out softer than Noel thinks he would have liked. 

“Yeah, you made it pretty fucking obvious,” Noel says. “Talking shit about me in all those interviews, and that.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Liam remarks. 

“Never said I didn’t miss you too, did I?” Noel says. 

“You’ve gone soft, you have,” Liam says, but he’s smiling. 

“Soft in the head for writing that song,” Noel mutters.

“Fuck off,” Liam says, but there’s no heat behind the words. 

Neither of them speak for a while, and Noel hears Liam’s breathing start to even out and rubs at his eyes, realising that shit, he’s fucking exhausted. 

“You can sleep,” Liam says, like he knows what Noel’s thinking. Probably does, the cunt. Noel’s not convinced they’re not telepathic. 

“Should go to bed,” Noel says. 

“Probably should,” Liam agrees, but neither of them move.

“I still love you,” Liam says after a moment, and it comes out helpless and hopeless. 

“I know,” Noel says. 

Neither of them speak again for the rest of the night, and when Noel wakes up in the morning, back stiff from sleeping in the chair, he finds his phone on two percent battery, and the call ended. 

But he’s got a text, he finds, when he unlocks his phone. 

**_LG_ ** _  
_ _Waldorf. LG x_


End file.
